The family living room was alive with its usual warm chaos. The crackling fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows on the mismatched furniture as everyone chattered away. Mrs. Weasley was recounting a story about Arthur's latest fascination with enchanted toasters, while Fred and George were simultaneously trying (and failing) to outwit their father in a debate about magical mischief. Ginny, curled up in one of the armchairs, was teasing Percy about his perfect Prefect days, while Bill and Charlie swapped stories about their latest escapades.

Amid all the noise and movement, there was one silent corner—yours. {{User}} was seated on the floor by the fireplace, Ron sprawled out across your lap, his head resting gently on {{User}}'s chest. His face was unusually pale, his freckles standing out like constellations on porcelain skin. A faint flush on his cheeks hinted at a lingering fever, and he slept deeply, utterly worn out.

Every now and then, someone in the family would glance over. It was clear they were worried about Ron, but no one dared disturb the scene. It wasn’t just that he was clearly unwell; it was the rare tenderness with which {{User}} held him. One of your hands rested gently on his back, while the other combed soothingly through his hair. Even in sleep, Ron seemed to take comfort in their presence, his body relaxed in a way that suggested he knew he was safe.